


The Image of Her

by autumnstar



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Edwardian Period, F/M, Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Character Death, The character death happens before the story starts, gothic romance AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-07-25 16:29:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16201325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnstar/pseuds/autumnstar
Summary: Belle wakes up early the morning after her wedding to find herself alone. That shapes the rest of her time in Mr. Gold’s manor. The servants hide from her, Mr. Gold shuts himself away in his study, and there’s a sad little boy that likes to follow her around. She hasn’t seen him yet, but she knows he’s there.Nominated for Best Unexpected Twist and Best Historical AU in the 2019 TEAs





	1. The Books

Dreams were unusual things, and Belle usually remembered all of hers, but that morning she awoke with a clear head. There was a niggling, scratching in the back of her mind; an uneasiness that told her she’d forgotten an important dream. She tried to cling to the last moments of it, an image of his face, before the dream crept away and escaped her, leaving her alone in an empty room.

But that wasn’t right.

She hadn’t been alone when she fell asleep. Her new husband had been beside her, holding her so close he seemed to fear she’d disappear in the night. Like an apparition, or smoke through his fingers.

It was still dark when her eyes finally fluttered open. The greyness of early morning peeked around the edges of the heavy curtains. The drapes around the bed had been left open on Mr. Gold - _Ingrum’s_ \- side. That made up her mind for her. She needed something to distract her from the emptiness in her head, and the whispers of her forgotten dream.

Grabbing her robe to fend off the chill of the morning, Belle stepped out into the empty hall. If there was one room her new husband had disappeared off to, it was either the library or his study. She knew him well enough to know he could hardly rest when there was work to be done, and he shared her love of reading.

The library was the first place she searched, floorboards creaking under her feet all the way, but the room was empty save for the last beams of moonlight before the sun rose completely. She shivered. None of the fires were lit yet, and her thin robe wasn’t enough to keep out the cold of the Dark Manor.

She wandered back out into the hall and made her way to Mr. Gold’s study. Belle had never been in there before, and she hesitated outside the heavy door for a good minute or two before she dared to knock. Candlelight flickered from underneath, growing slowly brighter as the rapping of a cane came closer and the door opened a crack.

“Belle,” he whispered. He held the candle in the hand that was hidden behind the door, keeping his face in cold shadow. She could still see enough to know that he was fully dressed; with his dark suit, gold pocket watch chain, high collared shirt and silk cravat. He adjusted the cravat in a nervous tic and Belle tried for a smile. When he smiled back an instant sigh of relief lifted her worry from her shoulders, but he seemed… less pleased to see her. He didn’t even look surprised to find she’d been walking around alone in her nightgown.

“Mr. Gold,” she whispered back.

“How are you, my dear?” he asked haltingly, searching her face and body as if he expected to find something out of place. His roaming eyes made a heat flood her cheeks. “After last night,” he clarified.

Belle frowned at him, despite the smile that still wanted to break through. It had been a wonderful night of passion, but he looked so sorrowful now. So taut. As if that same memory had been ripped from him and twisted.

“I’m well,” she said carefully. “If a little tired.”

That only made him frown deeper.

“Of course. Of course,” he said quietly, nodding in understanding even if she didn’t understand it herself. “Emotions were running high. I’ll endeavour to make things better next time.”

“I’m--” Her face burnt even warmer, and she was glad he kept them hidden in shadow. She must have looked such a sight. “I’m not sure it could have been better,” Belle dared to say, raising her chin. It wasn’t bad for a woman to openly desire a man when he was her husband, even if the marriage was less than a day old. But she still waited with a flutter of nerves in her stomach as he considered what she’d said, and finally those butterflies escaped her when he smiled and brought the candelabra from behind the door.

“Aye,” he said softly, with a pleased smile, and handed her the golden candelabra. “If only all nights could be so agreeable.”

“Agreeable?” she echoed.

His smile turned rueful. “Go back to bed, my dear. It’s too early to be wandering these halls alone.”

 

* * *

 

Their room was just as cold as it had been in the night, but when Belle awoke for a second time there was a fire blazing in the fireplace and warm clothes laid out for her at the end of the bed. She found that strange, but didn’t mind having to dress herself. She’d never had that when living with her father, but Mr. Gold was far wealthier and she’d worried about having to be dressed by a stranger.

The dress - made of white silk and cream lace - chosen for her by the unseen lady’s maid was easy enough to put on. The corset was more of a struggle, but a thick, black shawl had been paired with it, and she gladly wrapped it around her shoulders to cover the back of the dress. She pinned her hair up into a bun with unsure fingers, and thin, dark wisps of her hair were already starting to fall loose as she left the room.

Breakfast itself was another lonely affair. The table in the dining room was already set with a breakfast of some sort of meat and eggs. There was no sign of the butler, or any footman, but there was a second fire burning brightly in the grate. She sat as close to it as she could and picked at her food. Tea had been poured ready for her, and she was pleasantly surprised to find it had been prepared exactly how she liked it; just a splash of milk and a lump of sugar. She drank it all as she waited for Mr. Gold to join her, and by the time her cup was empty and her food had gone cold, Belle decided to leave.

She heard footsteps in other rooms, and floorboards creaking as servants hid behind walls and doors as she passed. It made her uneasy. She pulled her shawl tighter around her body and wondered if Ingrum had told them to stay away from her. There were many stories about her new husband’s stern and unforgiving nature. It must have been him they avoided, and displeasing her would surely bring their master’s wrath upon them. But she hadn’t seen that side of him yet. As far as she could tell the rumours about him were just that; rumours. So that quickly dispelled that theory.

Without giving it a thought, Belle found herself in the library. It looked so much more inviting in the light of day, but it was still cold. The fire at the other end of the room did nothing to allay the chill buried deep under her skin.

Curling up in the armchair by the high windows, Belle settled in the sunlight to read. Mr. Gold had shown her the room the night before, after his “welcome to Calderdale Hall. Most call it the Dark Manor” speech. The library fit perfectly in with the rest of the house, with its dark wooden shelves so wide and high she couldn’t see the walls behind them, reaching up to the ornate ceiling painted with golden trim. It was a magnificent room, if a little cold, and now it was all hers.

Time melted away as she started to read, the rest of the household and its invisible servants forgotten, but her midnight walk started to catch up with her. The words lulled her into a half-sleep, and the book slipped from her hands, landing with a soft thud that jolted her awake again.

She leaned forward to pick it back up, hoping she hadn’t bent the pages or the spine, and frowned when she saw the page the book had fallen open to.

A few pages into the book was a handwritten note, in a beautiful, old cursive. She sat back in her chair and lifted the page to the light to read the fading ink.

_A personal favourite. Read in:_

_1881\. 1883. 1888. 1892. 1895. 1900. 1901. 1903._

Underneath the dates was a quote. _“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same_ ,” she read out loud, “ _and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire_.”

Curious, Belle reached for the shelf beside her and picked a book at random. She opened it to just a few pages in, and sure enough there was the same handwriting with more dates and another quote.

_A fascinating story. Read in:_

_1882\. 1889. 1896. 1905._

_“It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another.”_

Belle grabbed another book and looked for the same again. The third book only had a long paragraph written out, with no dates or notes.

_“There is one dear topic, however, on which my memory fails me not…”_

Just then, before she could read all of the third note, Belle heard the clacking of a cane coming down the hall. She set the books aside and picked up the writer’s personal favourite. It was fast becoming a favourite of hers, too.

With a finger marking her place, she closed the book and looked up to find Mr. Gold watching her from the doorway. He remained in the shadows, far from the fireplace and the sunlight beaming over her. She smiled at him in greeting, and he tentatively smiled back as he tilted his head and tried to read the title of her book.

“Ah, I should have known,” he said when he recognised it, a half-smile on his lips. “ _She burned too bright for this world,_ ” he quoted, and Belle sat forward. She remembered, before her father died and he’d wanted her to marry someone else, how neither him nor Gaston had encouraged her love of reading. None of the men in her life would have talked about books with her, much less been able to quote the one she was currently reading off the top of their head. It must have been his writing in the front of the books.

“ _Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same_ ,” Belle said, thinking of the note, and she felt her smile turn down as his turned rueful. “It’s such a sad story.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Gold agreed, taking a little step further into the room. “Did you sleep well after your moonlit walk, my dear?”

“I did, my husband,” she answered with returning cheer. “But I would have slept better with you there.”

Standing, she smoothed down her dress and approached him. His hand flexed over the golden handle of his cane, his knuckles and fingers were white from where he’d been gripping it tightly, and Belle wondered if he was trying to shake feeling back into his hand. She put her hand over his, meeting his eyes, and tried not to gasp when she felt how warm he was. It felt as if he’d been out in the sun, or stood right before a fire, but the sun outside carried the chill of autumn and none of the fireplaces had managed to warm Belle up yet.

She looked at his sun-kissed skin underneath her fingers - which were pale in comparison, more the colour of moonlight - and wondered if he’d object to her holding his hand.

“I haven’t seen anyone all morning,” she told him, drawing careful patterns over the back of his hand with her fingertips. His eyes dropped to watch the motion, both mesmerised and stunned by the sudden contact between them.

“They’re--” His voice broke off, choked, and Belle squeezed his hand in what she hoped would be seen as reassurance. He looked unsure about having her so close.

“What is it?” she all but whispered.

“They’re afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

Mr. Gold’s eyes, dark and watchful, locked with hers and searched her again; in much the same way as he’d done only hours before. He seemed to be ever searching, or trying to remember what she looked like.

“I have work to do.” He took his hand away and moved his cane in time with his step backwards, away from her. “I’ll leave you to return to your book.” He took another step back and stopped, considering something. “Come to my study again this afternoon.”

Before Belle could ask why or ask for an exact time, Mr. Gold left her alone with nothing but the echoing _click, clack, click_ of his cane down the hall. She stood silently, listening to him go, when another sound caught her ear. It was fainter, but behind the tapping cane she could hear another set of footsteps. Lighter. Slower. Someone else was out in the hall now, but just as she opened her mouth to call out to them, a sniffling interrupted her. A quiet sobbing reached around the door and sent a shiver through her.

“Hello?” Belle called, voice cracking, and held the book up to her chest. The crying continued. “Are you all right?”

There was no answer.

“Perhaps I could help you?” She pulled the door open a little wider, and found nothing. The weeping stopped so abruptly that Belle didn’t notice until the door was wide open.

Breathing did not come easily to her. She pushed herself to take a deep breath to try and calm her nerves, and leaned forward to look up and down the hall, but she saw nothing; only the drapes over the windows and the emptiness now that Mr. Gold had left.

She slammed the door shut and pressed her hand against it, keeping whatever was crying out of the library.


	2. The Room

“Mr. Gold?”

Afternoon came quickly once she’d reasoned with herself that whoever was crying had hidden somehow; perhaps behind the drapes or a statue. Belle hadn’t eaten anything since the few mouthfuls at breakfast, but she didn’t feel hungry, and she was eager to hear what her husband wanted. Even if it was only a quick visit he requested, to see his wife between all of the work he had, Belle was happy to oblige.

“Just a moment,” he called through the door. She heard the shuffling of papers and glass, and the heavy fall of his cane. He was out of breath when the door swung open and he greeted her. “Come in.”

Belle smiled as she brushed past him. It was her first time seeing his study, but it was much like the rest of the Dark Manor. Heavy, red curtains were pulled across the high windows. The furniture - his desk, a bookcase, and side cabinet - were all dark wood, and the leather chairs were dark red. The walls were the only part of the room that differed in colour. They were covered with a sickly yellow wallpaper that Belle immediately decided she didn’t like. The flowers in its pattern, woven through with golden paint, seemed to shift and change as she walked further into the room. Mr. Gold held his hand on the small of her back to guide her to one of the chairs before his desk, and he pulled it around for her to sit.

“Thank you,” Belle breathed, straightening her dress around her legs. He moved around his desk and pulled out a key to unlock one of the top drawers. She watched him closely, leaning further and further forward in her seat until he produced a long, blue box.

“What is it?”

He slid the box across the top of the table, and gave her a small, pleased smile. “It’s yours,” he said simply.

Careful not to look too excited, Belle slowly reached for the box and placed it in her lap. She felt his eyes on her, and only her, as she snapped the lid open and saw what was inside. Her breath caught.

“Oh, Mr. Gold,” she whispered, and then corrected herself. “Ingrum.”

A stunning, diamond choker glinted back at her in the low light, set into a series of arching silver chains that hung from one another, with a teardrop pearl suspended in the centre.

“Allow me?” Ingrum asked. He was suddenly beside her, with his hand outstretched, and Belle happily handed him the box. He plucked the necklace from the velvet bed it was set in, and awaited her silent invitation. She smiled at him brightly and twisted in her chair to offer him her neck.

He was silent as he draped it around her. The cold metal rested in her collarbone and the loose pearl and diamonds tickled her skin as she moved. But they weren’t what sent the excited thrill through her. That was caused by his breath fanning across her skin, disturbing her hair that had fallen loose from her bun, and his fingers lightly danced up the side of her neck. They rested over her pulse, and Belle tried to steady her breathing.

“My dear,” he said then, taking his hand away.

“This is too much,” she protested. His hand appeared in the corner of her vision, and she took it and let him help her to her feet. “It’s far too much.”

“Nonsense,” he dismissed, fixing the way the diamonds hung around her neck. “This is the least I could do for you.”

Placing his hand on her back, Mr. Gold directed her towards one of the heavily draped windows. He pulled the thick velvet to the side, letting in only a small glow of sunlight. The outside world was hidden by tall trees and mist, and the dark backdrop allowed her to see her reflection in the glass. There was a tightness in her chest as she looked at her own face; pallid and stark against the darkness. The stones in the choker twinkled like stars, the pearl was their moon, and the metal the cold of night. It rested heavily against her throat, but it was Mr. Gold's eyes that caught hers, mirrored back at her through the windowpane and pinning her in place.

"Do you like it?" he whispered in her ear, ghosting his hand down her back.

"I do," she barely managed to whisper back. “But it’s still too much.”

“If I can’t shower my wife in wealth and beauty, then what can I do for her?” He gently turned her to face him, and Belle went willingly. She looked up at his troubled, lined face as he played with the choker’s pearl, and smiled.

“You already offered me your protection,” Belle reminded, taking his hand. “When my father died.”

His smile wavered.

“Aye,” he said at length. “I did, didn’t I? I’m afraid I haven’t made a very good protector.”

“You have,” she insisted. “Of course you have.”

“Oh, my dear--”

“We were only married yesterday, Ingrum.” Belle tried to laugh, but the sound died in her throat when she saw the bitter, broken look in his eyes.

“You should go.” He pulled his hand from hers and retreated behind the safety of his desk. “I still have work to do.”

“If… If that’s what you want.”

A weight of disappointment dropped into her heart as she was dismissed. It joined the cold that still settled around her, and she realised then that the fire in his study hadn’t been lit. She frowned and looked back at him slumped in his chair, staring unseeingly at the clutter on his desk. She searched the papers he hadn’t hurried to hide from her, and the leaning pile of books on the edge. Then her eye caught something golden, reflecting the single candle flame dancing above it.

She leaned forward curiously, before he could dismiss her again. Inside the frame was a portrait of a young boy, taken with a camera. She hadn’t seen a photograph before, and the image was worn and frayed around the edges. It looked as if it had been touched many times before being slipped into the frame, preserving it from any more wear.

“Who is that?” Belle asked before she could stop herself. Mr. Gold’s eyes snapped up to her, wild and unfocused and as dark as the boy's in the picture, before he realised that it was only her.

“Who?” he asked.

“The boy in the frame.”

He looked between herself and the photograph, like he couldn’t work out whether or not she was being serious. Should she have known who it was? She had no memory of a boy, or Mr. Gold ever telling her about a son. It wouldn’t matter if he did. She wouldn’t mind a child or two about the house. She only wanted the truth.

“Does he live here?” she prompted when he didn’t answer, and then had another thought. “I heard crying earlier.”

Whatever confused trance he’d slipped into broke then. He stood suddenly, scraping his chair back along the wooden floor, and slammed the frame face-down so hard that she thought he might crack the glass.

“I shall see you later, my dear,” he said with strained calm. “We will dine together.”

Belle nodded mutely and stepped back. Before she knew it, she’d backed into the study door without taking her eyes from him, and reached for the handle that dug into her back.

“Oh, and,” he held up a hand, the hand that wasn't lifting the frame back up, “wear that necklace.”

“Yes. I will.”

In the hall, alone again, Belle gave herself a moment to catch her breath. The choker suddenly felt even heavier, and the metal hadn’t warmed at all against her skin. She pulled her shawl up her shoulders and walked away.

She was a few paces from the study door when she realised her steps, clicking and creaking along the floorboards, were being echoed. She stopped, and the shadowing footsteps stopped with.

“Is that you again?” Belle asked without turning. “Your father wouldn’t tell me your name.”

There was nothing but silence behind her. But as she turned, footsteps ran in the opposite direction down the hall and she caught sight a door slamming shut.

It was just a boy, she had to remind herself. Just a sad little boy. She could be brave if it meant comforting a child.

Straightening her back, Belle walked with careful steps towards the door that had closed. It was another room she hadn’t been in before, but unlike Mr. Gold’s study, she had no idea what lay behind the door. She waited outside it, listening, and heard the same, soft sobbing from that morning.

“There’s no need to cry,” she soothed, pressing her hand and ear to the old wood. The crying didn’t stop. “May I come in?”

“Please,” a boy’s voice whispered through the door, timid and afraid. “You have to stay away from me.”

“Why?“ Silence met her question, and Belle steeled herself as she grabbed the door handle. “I’m coming in,” she warned gently.

“Mrs. Gold?”

Belle jumped, knocking her knuckles painfully against the door frame, and turned to find a man stood behind her. She hadn’t heard him approach, not even along the old floor that seemed to alert her to every little movement. His black and white suit were impeccably made, with not a cuff or collar twisted out of place, and his thin moustache was pulled in such a way that made her smile despite herself.

“Yes?” she asked steadily, rubbing her knuckles.

“I have been told to escort you back to the library, ma’am.”

“The library?” She frowned. “But I don’t want to go to the library.”

“Please,” the man said, with a desperate note creeping into the edges of his voice. “Please, it’s safer for you in there. Or perhaps the drawing room?” he suggested as an alternative.

They both cast a glance over her shoulder, to the door the boy had disappeared behind, and she sighed.

“Very well,” she conceded. “You’re the first person I’ve seen all day,” she added as she followed after him. “Other than Mr. Gold, of course. You all must be very busy.”

“Oh, yes. Quite busy.”

“Too busy to wait in the dining room during breakfast.” Belle was still annoyed about that. Eating alone the morning after her wedding had been decidedly depressing. It was bad enough her own husband hadn’t been there, without the servants avoiding her as well.

“There is much to do,” was all he said. “You can imagine the amount of work it takes to keep the cogs turning in a manor this size.”

“Yes,” she said, puzzled. He continued to talk as he led her on through the upstairs floor of the house, and Belle quickly realised that he was talking so much because he was nervous. He wrung his hands together and kept checking the pocket watch hanging from a silver chain on his waistcoat. He didn’t seem to pay any attention to the time. He only seemed to need a distraction, to take his mind off whatever was happening in the house.

“Here we are, ma’am,” the butler hurried, pushing the library door open wide. “I’m told you will be joining the master this evening.”

“Yes. I’ve been told the same,” Belle returned.

“Very good.” He paused and let her pass. She wasn’t sure if he’d deliberately ignored her sarcastic tone, or if it simply flew past him. After all, sarcasm wasn’t very becoming in a young lady. “Shall I send someone to lay out your evening wear?”

“Yes, please.” She turned back to him and offered him a smile. “Something warm. Like this morning.”

His smile twitched and faded, and he hastily bowed his head before scurrying away from her.

Belle waited, counted to ten in her head, and left in the other direction. It didn’t take her many moments to find her way back to the boy’s room. She trod carefully, as quietly as she could past Mr. Gold’s study, and didn’t see a single soul to stop her. The only thing that made her pause was her own uncertainty. She stilled, with her hand hovering over the doorknob, and listened.

Inside, almost muted by the creeks of the old house and the servants shuffling through other rooms like ghosts, Belle caught the sniffles of a child crying. Something gripped her heart and banished the worry she’d let settle in her chest.

There was no need to fear a sad child.

Gripping the handle with a fresh wave of determination, she pushed the door open and saw… nothing. The room was nothing but a grey, cold bedroom. The afternoon light filtered through lace curtains, which hung loose from their fixings, heavy with dust. The carpet felt grainy underneath her heels as she stepped inside, and the bed jutting out into the room was bleached; drained of colour which, at one time, she was sure would have been covered with rich blue drapes.

Now all colour and life was gone, faded to grey, and the crying had gone with it.

She looked around, noted the moth-eaten clothes draped across the end of the bed, and the crumbling paint on the wooden rocking horse. Toy soldiers scattered the floor, left where they were dropped the last time they were played with. Beside the bed, on an old nightstand, was a water damaged glass and medicine bottle. Left behind, just like everything else.

Time had been forgotten in that room, and Belle wrapped her arms around her middle as she left it. She pulled the door shut behind her, and heard the crying start anew.

She wouldn’t set foot in there again.


	3. The Rose

If there was one thing Belle could be certain of, it was that tea could solve most ailments. That included a case of unease. She tried not to think about the servants avoiding herself and Mr. Gold, or the fact she’d been banished to the library. What she needed was tea and company, of any kind.

It took her longer than she’d care to admit to find the stairs down into the kitchens. The room was bustling with activity. The cook, a short and round woman with ruddy cheeks and greying hair, rushed around from stove to table and back again, with her kitchen maid scurrying after her. Footmen walked in and out, and she caught a glimpse of the butler hurrying past the door.

But all of that stopped the second they saw her standing there.

“Miss-- Mrs. Gold,” the cook stammered, casting a glance to the kitchen maid who dipped a sloppy curtsy.

“Good afternoon,” Belle said hopelessly. She had no idea of the names of any of the servants, and she was starting to wonder why Mr. Gold had made no effort to introduce them. At the very least, she should have been given the name of their butler.

“Is there something you need, ma’am?”

“Could I trouble you for some tea?”

The cook’s eyes widened, just for a moment, before she recovered and offered Belle a bright smile. She seemed friendly enough, they all did, but there was an underlying terror and stiffness to the way they all moved around the kitchen.

She stood silently at the edge of the room, not wanting to get in their way, as the cook put on a kettle of water to boil. That seemed to unnerve them even more, but the cook at least had got over her initial shock at finding Belle there. Other than the occasional glance and sad smile over her shoulder, the cook mostly ignored her until the tea was made. Then she offered Belle the cup and saucer, both of which held a welcome warmth that seeped into her fingers, and ushered over one of the footmen.

“Louis,” she said. “Why don’t you take Mrs. Gold up to have her tea in the drawing room? Or the library, perhaps?”

Belle was aware of her own small height, but she became even more aware of it as a tall, lanky man walked over and towered over both herself and the cook. She would have been intimidated, had he not been the first one to offer her a smile that held no fear.

“Of course,” he said with a thick French accent, bowing his head. “Madame?” He lifted his arm and let her lead the way from the kitchen and up the narrow staircase, back into the grand entrance hall of the Dark Manor.

He didn’t witter on as the butler had. He had a much calmer presence about him that set Belle at ease, and made her wonder if perhaps he was the one to question if she ever wanted to find out what was going on in her new home.

“Louis,” she said carefully, still enjoying the warmth of her tea in her hands.

“Madame?” He had been a pace or two behind her, but his footsteps hurried to walk a little closer to her as he spoke.

“Do you know anything about Mr. Gold’s last marriage?”

There was silence, at first, and Belle worried she wouldn’t get any answer at all, but then Louis sighed and stepped forward to walk in time with her own footfalls.

“The last madame Gold?” he clarified.

“Who else?” Belle smiled at him, in an attempt to reassure him, but he just looked away wistfully.

“They say his wife became a monstre.”

“They say?” she repeated. “You don’t agree.”

“No, chère, I do not.”

Belle didn’t know what to say to that. He seemed certain that Mr. Gold’s first wife wasn’t a monster, but then why would everyone else think she was? Fearful to ask too many questions, she decided to ask just one more before Louis thought it best to keep quiet and leave her questions for Mr. Gold.

“She’s the boy’s mother?” she chanced.

“The boy? You have met him, no?”

“I… I haven’t seen him,” she admitted. “But I hear him.”

“Don’t we all?”

“What’s his name?” Belle asked, but Louis said nothing, and she held her little china cup tighter. “He must have a name?”

“It is best not to speak the names of the dead in this house.”

Louis glanced at her as he opened the door to the library, and gave her a queasy smile. He stood with his hand on the door frame as she stepped inside, his eyes flicking down the hall and back to her several times, before he decided he should tell her whatever was on his mind.

“The boy, he means you no harm,” he whispered as if it was a great secret. “There are far worse things under this roof than a sad little boy.”

He took his leave of her, leaving Belle standing alone in the middle of her library.

 

* * *

 

As requested, the dress left for her that evening was a warm one of heavy, blue velvet, with a black rose-lace overlay. She had to wiggle and twisted around a little to pull it on by herself, but at least the corset was easier, and it was pretty enough once everything was on and in place. It wasn’t too ostentatious, with a simple square neckline and velvet belt pinching in the waist, and paired quite nicely with the diamond choker Mr. Gold wanted her to wear. She wondered if someone had told the lady’s maid about it, to have paired it so perfectly with her dress.

When she entered the dining room, Mr. Gold was already there, and declared that she looked, “Most lovely.”

“Thank you.” She blushed prettily as he put his hand to the small of her back and led her to a seat. The table was set with what looked like his best china, white with a simple blue pattern, and red candles burned in the centre. But there was no food, only a glass each for them. Hers was filled with white wine and his with red.

“What are we having?” Belle asked with a frown, and looked up just in time to catch the smile falter on his face. His eyes avoided hers and she felt the cold loss of no longer having them on her. They were such lovely eyes. She could clearly picture them once being warm and bright, but now dark clouds had eclipsed them, leaving him without light or life.

“My dear,” he said, turning away from her entirely. “Would you mind indulging me in an old hobby of mine?”

It wasn’t lost on her that he’d avoided her question as though she hadn’t uttered a word, but Belle’s curiosity got the better of her and she eagerly nodded before she could stop herself.

“Of course. What do you want me to do?”

“Just sit there.” She could hear the soft smile in Mr. Gold’s voice before he turned back around. He carried a black, box-like object that Belle didn’t immediately recognise. It was once he’d stepped closer to her, and held the box just in front of his stomach, that she realised it was one of those newfangled cameras. The leather at the front was folded in a way that reminded her of a concertina, and she desperately wanted to reach out to take it from him and have a better look.

“You’re a photographer?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.

He smiled patiently, looking down at her through the tiny lens. “I try to be. It is a fine invention, don’t you think?” The shutter clicked, taking her photograph while she looked up at him and listened.

“Mr. Gold!” she protested, laughing. “I wasn’t ready.”

“I find that’s the best time to capture a person’s image.”

No doubt knowing how curious she was, he placed the camera on the table in front of her and took his seat. He lifted his glass to his lips, watching her as she turned the camera over in her hands. It was a lot heavier than she’d imagined one being, and the casing was metal made to look like leather, which was cool to the touch. She put it back down, suddenly worried she’d drop it, and took a sip of her wine.

“What do you think?” Mr. Gold asked, licking a trace of red from the corner of his lips. Belle watched the movement of his tongue and took a deep breath.

“I think… You’re right. It is a fine invention. I’d be interested in seeing the images you’ve captured so far.”

“I’ve taken many,” he said quietly, as though it were a bad thing. “Far more than I ever intended to.”

“Oh?” Belle looked at him expectantly, but he didn’t answer. He twirled his wine glass, watching the red liquid swirl around inside, and she sighed. There was something troubling him and she had no idea how to get him to open up to her. Surely he knew he could tell her anything? It was a photograph that had upset him earlier that day, one of his son, and Belle wondered if she dared bring it up again.

She cleared her throat, smoothed out her dress, and straightened her back.

“What happened to your first wife?” she said steadily, never flinching when his dark eyes snapped up to her face. She licked her lips and willed herself to carry on. “Your boy’s mother.”

“Milah?” he asked, although she’d never known the woman’s name. At least he didn’t sound angry, only confused. “She went away.”

Belle nodded, letting the vague answer settle between them to take another sip of wine.

“And how long ago was that?”

“Decades, my dear.”

Belle fell silent at that. She pressed her lips together and watched him as he swirled his wine around and around in the glass. He was distracted by something; some dark thought that made the creases in his brow deepen and gave his eyes a far away look.

She took another sip of her own wine and looked away from him. A cough erupted in the back of her throat, almost like the wine had gone down the wrong way, and the force of it rattled in her chest. Mr. Gold was beside her in an instant, rubbing her back and whispering meaningless reassurances. As though he’d done this many times before.

Belle blinked back the sting of tears in her eyes and twisted away from her husband. It was early evening, but the light was already gone outside, and the few candles dotted around the room did nothing to brighten the space. The bookcases were cast in shadow, the only discernible feature of the grandfather clock was its ghostly white face, and the flowers arranged in vases in all the windows were lifeless and drained of colour. There was nothing to distract her from her cough or embarrassment, and she was at a loss for what to say or how to ask him any more questions about his son.

“We should go for a stroll,” Ingrum said suddenly, snapping her attention back to him and away from a particularly sad looking arrangement of white roses.

“But it’s dark,” she pointed out rather obviously. “Where would we go?”

“Somewhere that we can be alone,” he answered, pushing back his chair from the table. “Somewhere that isn’t here.”

Belle rubbed her hands uneasily across her corseted stomach, as he pulled her chair out for her to stand and offered her his arm.

“I haven’t explored much of the house yet,” she offered, but he shook his head.

“Not the house, my dear. We can’t be alone in the house.”

“But… surely you don’t mean for us to explore the gardens?”

“Not quite,” he said with a secretive smile. There was a playful twinkle in his eyes, one that gave her a sudden image of what he must have looked like as a younger man. She could clearly picture him without the lines on his face or the grey in his hair. His dimpled smile was the same, and the way he looked at her hadn’t aged or weathered a day. “Close your eyes?”

“Why?” Belle asked, the slight tremor in her voice giving away that she was trying not to laugh.

“Indulge me.”

“That’s the second time you have asked me that tonight, Mr. Gold,” she returned, and closed her eyes.

“And I’d wager it won’t be the last.” His voice was in her ear when he said that, hushed and deep. It sent a shiver down her back, which was accompanied by his hand pressing against it to guide her along.

They weren't walking for long. He kept his hand on her, the other on his cane which tapped lightly at their side. It was the only sound that passed between them until his voice whispered into the shell of her ear again.

“Mind the steps,” he said gently, gripping her arm lightly in case she missed her footing as she stepped down two shallow steps. The air around her grew cooler and a door to her left creaked open. She felt something heavy settle around her shoulders as she rubbed at her arms to ward off the cold, and realised it was his blazer. She hugged it around herself and reached blindly for his arm. He took her hand, and after opening another door to guide her through, his arm snaked around her back.

“Here,” Ingrum said. “Open your eyes.”

Belle’s eyes opened to darkness. It took several, long seconds for them to adjust, and as they did she could see they were in some sort of large conservatory. The gardens outside were highlighted in a silver sheen from the moon, and the more she looked up at the sky through the high windows, the more stars she noticed twinkling brightly. Mr. Gold shifted his grip on his cane, and settled the tip down between his feet, drawing her attention back to the room.

It was as poorly lit as the dining room had been, with only the moon from the windows and candlelight filtering in from the open doorway behind them, but she could see enough to let her curiosity run wild. Once her eyes were adjusted, the shadows in the room shifted into more recognisable shapes. The far glass wall was lined with busts and figures of Helios, Thanatos, Pallas, and one that was possibly Selene. The white stone was stark against the dark of night, and gave the sculpted faces an ethereal glow.

“My dear,” Mr. Gold spoke behind her, and she turned to see him holding out a flower in one hand.

“A rose?” she smiled, accepting his gift. It was then that she spotted the flowers lining the opposite wall outside, and the rose bush growing up around the glass door. He’d opened it while she’d been inspecting the night sky, and crisp, fresh air filled the room, bringing with it the perfume of roses and autumn.

“For you. If you’ll have it,” he said and then, unprovoked, he added, “It’s such a pity roses never stay beautiful for long.”

Belle looked down at the delicate bloom in her hand, careful not to prick her finger on the thorns, and brought the red petals to her nose. She felt him watching her, but neither said anything as she inhaled the fresh scent and smiled at him.

“Nothing stays beautiful for long,” she finally answered, and he looked away from her, down to the handle of his cane where his thumb traced the intricately embossed gold.

“Some things do,” he said lowly. “I--”

Behind him, from somewhere in the manor, a door slammed shut and footsteps echoed down the hall. Without thought, Belle stepped closer to Ingrum and he cupped her elbow to tug her closer still.

“You said we could be alone here,” she whispered, listening to the footsteps. There was something odd about them, that Belle didn’t need to see the troubled frown on her husband’s face to notice. They were growing closer, but instead of getting louder, they faded. They went quieter and quieter, until there was only stillness, and then the door swung open and hit the wall with a shuddering bang.

Belle jumped and leaned into Mr. Gold, but there was no one there. The empty doorway stared back at them, and she took a deep breath, placing her rose-free hand on his chest.

“Ingrum?”

“Aye,” he answered, glaring at the door. “The servants have no reason to come in here, and Bae--... Baelfire never came in here as a boy. It held no interest for him.”

“But… he may come in here now?”

“Perhaps.”

“Oh.”

“He--” Ingrum cleared his throat. “He is troubled by the things that happen in this house.”

“What sort of things?”

Mr. Gold flicked his hand through the air in a vague shrug, and Belle narrowed her eyes, about to ask him again, when another set of footsteps came rushing down the hall. These footsteps, unlike the first, grew louder and echoed as they got nearer to the conservatory, and Mr. Gold sighed.

“Apparently the servants do have a reason to come here,” she teased lightly. His lips twitched into a brief, amused smile, before the butler appeared in the doorway. He was flustered, red-faced, his toupee all askew, and moving his hands quickly in front of himself as if he could grasp at the words that struggled to leave his mouth.

“What is it?” Ingrum demanded, and the man visibly jumped; pushing the words that had evaded him a moment ago back into him.

“Y-your… Your photographs, master,” the butler rushed out. Ingrum stiffened against her and pulled her closer.

“What of them?”

He looked nervously between Belle and Mr. Gold, his eyes wide with fright. “He… Well, he-- He tried to destroy them, sir.”

Panic gripped her husband, overtaking his anger, and his grip on her side became painfully possessive. He held her tight, as if he meant to root her to the spot and stop her from fleeing at the mere mention of his photography.

“Did he, indeed?” he asked, and the butler’s shoulders relaxed at his master’s calm tone, but Belle knew better. His hold on her told Belle that he was anything but calm.

“What is it?” she asked him quietly, and both men looked at her as though they were stunned to find her still there and able to talk. “Ingrum?”

“Nothing,” he murmured. “Nothing at all. You should go to the library, my dear. Read your books and forget all of this. I… I will join you in a wee while.”

“But I don’t want--”

“Please,” he interrupted, releasing her with a jolt as if it took a great effort for him to pull himself from her. “Please.”

Before she could stop him, Ingrum hurried out of the room and the butler dashed after him, leaving her alone with her single rose.


	4. The Sun and Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reblogged, liked, commented, and left kudos on this fic! I'm sorry for not replying to people on the last few chapters, but I really didn't want to risk giving anything away. I still appreciate everyone that took the time to share their thoughts, and I really enjoyed reading everyone's guesses about what was going on. So, I hope you all enjoy the final chapter, and Happy Halloween!

Belle sighed, clutching the rose to her chest, and stepped back into the manor. She supposed there was nowhere else for her to go but to the library. Wherever she went in the house she would be by herself. Going to an empty bed, the day after her wedding, made the lonely ache in her chest worse. Going to any other room in the house held little interest for her in that moment. That left only the library, but as she walked along the halls listlessly, another room came to mind.

Coming up ahead of her, just to her right, was the heavy, oaken door of Mr. Gold’s study. She couldn’t say what it was that pulled her there and compelled her to try the handle, but she didn’t fight the spontaneous need to see his study without him there.

The door clicked open without protest. It swung open by itself when she released the handle, and for a moment she only stood on the threshold, waiting as if she expected Ingrum to appear and extend an invitation. But nothing happened. The dark room with its blood-red drapes and hideous yellow wallpaper remained empty and silent. She took a step forward, holding her rose close as if it would prevent her from being found out.

Inside was just as it had been that afternoon, but for one change. The desk was strewn with small, rectangular pieces of card. Some were white and others held images, like the framed one she’d seen of Baelfire. As she stepped closer and realised that some were on the floor, smouldering and singed at the edges, a fire burst to life in the grate. It filled the room with a bright, hot orange glow; so intense that it pushed Belle back and she hit her backside against Mr. Gold’s desk.

The thorns of the rose bit into her hand, and tears sprang in her eyes, blurring the fire and the room and the red dots in her palm.

“Be brave,” she whispered to herself. “There is nothing to fear from a sad little boy.” That’s all he was. Just a boy.

She blinked back the tears and the fire lowered and waned as the room came back to her. She looked down, to the photographs under her feet, and realised that they weren’t of a boy at all. Setting the rose down on the desk, Belle sucked the drops of blood from her hand and bent to scoop them up.

The first image was an old one, blurred and grainy. It must have been taken with an earlier camera, some years ago. All as she could tell was that the subject was a woman with dark hair. The next image was a little clearer, but was taken from behind, as the woman stood in the conservatory looking at the busts lining the glass wall. The next images were much the same; faceless images of a woman taken from all angles, when she didn’t know Mr. Gold was there.

She was her husband’s obsession; his muse. He’d taken countless images of her and Belle started to feel very small in that grand, golden room. He still loved another, to always want her image so near.

“Milah,” she remembered out loud, and the name felt like iron nails on her tongue.

A vague, flash of memory accompanied some of the images then, as if her voice had knocked open a gate inside her, and memories burst free of their cage. The photograph of the woman sitting in the library came with a tug of familiarity. The one of the woman reading at the dining table filled her head with the sound of Mr. Gold’s voice, and her own.

_“You should try to eat something, my dear. Your book will keep.”_

_“I’m not hungry, Ingrum. I’m never hungry anymore.”_

Belle put those images to one side with shaking hands, and turned her attention to the ones set out in front of where Mr. Gold sat at his desk. Those photographs were clearer, and all held the likeness of the same woman. Every colourless picture was of herself; from the side, reading, looking at something in the distance, or smiling at the man capturing her picture.

_“Just one more.”_

_“We should stop.”_

_“I’m not ready to stop!”_

It occurred to her then, as memories of a life she didn’t know flashed through her head, that while she remained exactly the same in every image and every memory, Mr. Gold had changed. The older photographs, the blurred ones taken on an old camera, gave her memories of a younger Ingrum Gold, one the same age as herself with a face free of lines. And as she flicked through the photographs and the memories progressed, he gradually got older and sadder. He walked with a cane, his eyes grew lines from worry, and streaks of silver appeared at his temples. But she never changed.

It made no sense.

She pushed the photographs away and backed out of the room. None of it made any sense. Perhaps that was why the servants stayed away and kept to themselves. They must have known there was something wrong with her. Something wrong with her mind, maybe, to give her false memories of an impossible life. Of a life where she was frozen, caught in a single moment in time like one of Mr. Gold’s photographs.

Belle found herself in the library only a moment later. She couldn’t remember walking there. She couldn’t remember sitting on the rug in front of the fire, or curling up on her side in the hopes that the warmth would seep into her cold flesh.

She stared at the flames, watching them dance as she tried to forget again the memories that pushed their way into her head.

When the library door opened, she was glad to note there was no tapping of a cane to accompany the intruder. And so she lay still, staring into the fire.

“Madame?” Louis asked hesitantly. He stepped closer to her, with halting steps that grew quieter as he came to stand to the side of her. He set a candelabra onto the table near her head, and the nervous rustling of his clothes mingled with the crackling of the fire.

“You went into the master’s study,” he said at last, and he sighed when Belle didn’t answer. “The time between you remembering,” Louis continued, speaking mostly to himself, “it gets shorter and shorter.”

“What’s happening to me?” she whispered.

“Something that should have stopped a long time ago. If you would allow it.”

“Am I mad?”

“You’re no more mad than anyone else in this place. Who is to say what is and is not mad anymore?” He chuckled, darkly and without humour. “We all let this _folie_ continue.”

“She became a monster,” Belle said, quoting his words back to him. “You didn’t mean his first wife, did you?”

Louis said nothing. Both of them stayed still in front of the blazing fire, covered in its amber glow, but only one of them felt its heat.

“Are you the monstre?” he puzzled after a time. “Or does that honour go to the beast who made you?”

“Louis?”

“Monsieur Gold?”

“That will be all, Louis. I think you’ve said quite enough.”

Everything stopped at the mention of his name. Belle lay perfectly still across the bearskin rug, the heat of the fire bouncing off her chilled skin, as she listened to Louis leaving the library. All was quiet for a moment more, until the rap of Mr. Gold’s cane told her her husband was approaching. He came to a stop behind where she lay, where Louis had stood a moment before, and neither of them said or did anything.

She wondered if he was looking at her in the same way she looked at the fire; drawn in by the foreignness of it, by the thing she longed to have but could no longer reach. For Belle, that was the warmth. She didn’t know what that would be for her husband, but she could guess.

“Join me?” she asked at length.

Silence followed and then, with difficulty, she heard the fall of his good knee onto the rug behind her and the scrape of his cane as he struggled to lower himself. She was right. He was drawn in by her as she was drawn to the flames.

He lay behind her, and Belle reached back in search of his hand. She found it resting between them, on the soft fur, and pulled it forward until he was pressed against her back.

“Belle,” he said quietly, his warm breath fanning across her neck. She shivered. His heat seeped into her, through the heavy velvet of her dress, and she pressed herself back into him.

“Make me feel again,” she whispered, and he sighed into the crook of her neck. “Touch me.”

He pressed his hand flat against her stomach and held her close. Belle let him hold her tight as he covered the back of her neck and the curve of her shoulder with soft kisses. She sighed contentedly. Her body was already starting to warm, her cheeks flushed with colour and her stomach hummed with heat where he held onto her. She wanted more of him. She wanted her husband and his heat to consume her; to give back the life and warmth she’d been missing for so long.

Reaching down, she took his hand and guided his touch up to her breast. He stilled, with his face buried in her hair, inhaling her scent, and Belle pressed her hips back into his groin.

“Please,” she whispered. The sound of her voice pulled him back into the moment. His hand gently squeezed her breast as she leaned back into him. She turned her head and he kissed her over her shoulder. It was an awkward position, but Belle refused to move and disturb their embrace.

His lips were hot on hers, burning away her fears and sorrow, and leaving her filled with nothing but need. She needed him, and the only way she could think to let him know, was to twist her arm back and toy at the top button of his trousers. He groaned against her lips and reached down to unfasten it for her. As soon as his palm left her, the cold began to creep back into her chest, like the roots of a weed taking hold of her again.

Breaking their kiss with a frustrated whine, Belle returned Ingrum’s hand to her breast and set about moving their clothes herself. He peppered kisses down her jaw as she lifted her hips and pulled her skirts up her legs. It was awkward and she heard something rip, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was that her husband kept his hands and lips on her.

She reached back again to help him push open the front of his trousers.

“Here?” he asked in a daze. His dark eyes were heavy lidded when he looked at her, and she smiled to see the same desire she felt for him reflected back in them.

“Here,” she agreed in a whisper, curling her hand around his collar to pull him into another kiss.

She should have felt obscene with her skirts bunched up around her hips, exposing the length of her pale legs, but she didn't. It all felt right. Even having to twist her upper body around to kiss him felt right. Just like the familiar, soft touch of his lips on hers, Belle was filled with a contented warmth. It felt right.

His hand moved from her chest a second time, but she couldn’t bring herself to care as she felt the light press of his fingers trailing down the front of her dress; burning lines into her skin. He slipped his hand between her thighs and pressed against the inside of her leg, until she understood his meaning and lifted it up. The burning in her cheeks felt dizzying in their mix of desire and embarrassment, but she had nothing to be ashamed of. They were married, and she had at least one memory of them doing this before, on their wedding night. He knew her body well enough to attest to that.

“Are you certain, Belle?”

“ _Yes_.”

“But the door--”

“Please,” she interrupted, tilting her hips back into his to press herself against his hard cock. It slipped between her legs, brushing against her wetness, and her eyes fluttered shut. “Please, Ing--” she gasped, “ _Rum_!” He thrust into her as she said his name, pleading with him to take her, and heat burst through her body, hotter than any fire. Her skin burnt with an intense desire for living and feeling and _him_. She rocked her body back as he thrust his hips forward, pushing his cock in and out of her and pumping that amazing, warm bliss around her body.

“Yes,” she panted, her voice so breathless that it almost sounded like nothing more than a moan. “ _Yes_ , yes!” Belle buried half of her face into the rug, her hand clinging at the long, white fur.

His own hands ran up the front of her dress, and rested lightly against her collarbone, where his fingers brushed at the choker he’d given her. She tipped her head back, exposing her neck to his burning touch, and his ragged breathes danced across her chilled skin. It ignited the fires he’d started deep within her; the ones fuelling the desperate pleasure he created each time he thrust into her.

“Please,” she said in a breathless whisper. Belle wasn’t entirely sure what she was pleading for, he was already giving her what she wanted, but it earned her a kiss to her cheek.

“Belle,” he panted back, and the sound of her name falling from his lips in an urgent plea drew a low moan from her. Ingrum’s hands came up higher to cup her neck, and he pressed his fingertips against her fluttering pulse. “Good girl.”

Those two, simple words undid her. The fire inside her burned bright, setting her whole body alight with his heat and her pleasure. She shamelessly called out his name, without a care for who might hear, and felt him achieve his own release inside her. His frenzied thrusts against her became slower and disjointed, until both of them collapsed into a satisfied stillness.

Belle’s chest heaved as she struggled to calm her breathing, even if she didn’t really need the air, and she pulled herself from Ingrum’s embrace to turn and face him. She didn’t need the fire anymore, and the confusion of all the memories she didn’t know she’d lost was beginning to settle in her head. The only thing she could be certain of was him, and he looked at her as though he feared he might have broken her.

Her whole body tingled, like she'd been shut outside in the snow for so long she'd forgotten what heat was, and had just come back in to find a raging fire and a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. He was the welcoming fire.

She pulled herself into his chest, and he snaked his arms around her waist. A quiet settled in the library, punctuated only by their steadying breaths and the crackling of the fire. She was reluctant to break that, and he seemed to be, too. She stroked the soft, embroidered back of his suit, he brushed his fingers through her hair where it had fallen from her attempts at a bun, and Belle smiled.

She remembered their wedding night; _really_ remembered it. She'd been warned there might be some pain the first time, but beyond a brief moment of discomfort, Belle had felt anything but pain. Her and her new husband had been almost the same age, and they were both nervous and fumbling, even though he had a young son and she knew it wasn't his first time. He never treated her cruelly, and did whatever he could to ensure that it wouldn't hurt her.

She remembered how surprised he was when she enjoyed it and happily welcomed his attention the next night, and the next.

“We were almost the same age when we married. Do you remember?” There was the wistful lilt of nostalgia in his voice, and Belle wondered if he’d somehow read her mind. “You didn’t promise yourself to an old man, sweetheart.”

“You aren’t old, Ingrum,” she said stubbornly, ignoring the implications of his words and the returning ache in her chest. Why did he have to ruin their quiet moment? Couldn’t she stay in ignorance just a little longer?

“And I don’t walk with a cane,” he said bitterly.

“We’re almost the same age still,” she assured him, because she could remember at least that much. “That hasn’t changed.”

“But I have.”

“It doesn’t matter to me. It doesn’t,” Belle insisted when he only shook his head. “I should have changed, too. I should be like you.”

That finally rendered him silent. His arms tightened around her, and Belle let him draw his fingertips down the back of her neck and the top of her shoulder. His touch sent a pleased little shiver down her back, relighting some of the dead chill that was settling back in her stomach. She didn’t want to know the truth, but she needed to hear it.

“Tell me what happened?” she asked quietly. “Remind me.”

Another moment of silence began to stretch out between them, and Belle sighed at the same time that Ingrum started to talk.

“Baelfire fell ill,” he said in a broken voice, “and you took it upon yourself to nurse him.”

“What was it?”

“It… started as a pain in the chest. A cough.”

Belle’s hands stilled against his back. “Consumption,” she whispered, and he nodded against the top of her head.

“I had to save both of you, and so I made a deal.”

“A deal?” she echoed, pleading quietly. “I don’t understand.”

“I would have lost you otherwise.”

“So you saved us?”

“No. No, I wish that I had, but I only replaced one horror with another.” He leaned back and cupped her jaw, searching her eyes. “The man-- He didn’t… I didn’t understand the price.”

She tried hard to remember the story he was telling her, but everything was a haze. It was like looking through the slit of a broken zoetrope. Some of the images were there, but some were distorted or missing, and interrupted the memories she was trying to watch.

She remembered Ingrum inviting her to his father’s estate in England, telling her that she didn't have to marry her father's choice of husband if she didn't want to. Calderdale Hall - the Dark Manor - could be their home together.

She saw a vague image of Baelfire, in his room that was once bright and blue and had now turned grey and dull with decay. She remembered a doctor - a Dr. Whale - being called in before things became too dire and Ingrum shut the world away.

She remembered the man in the black cloak.

Ingrum took him to his study, and she didn’t see him again until he came to her late in the night, and told her that the man knew magic. He had a way to save her.

“You trapped us here. With those photographs,” Belle remembered at last. “Why didn’t I remember?”

“The images only capture your likeness. They don’t capture your mind. Your memories. And yours started to fade a long time ago. Now it’s--” He faltered, and she closed her eyes to block out the utterly lost, haunted pallor of his face. “It’s as though you’re trapped in a loop. You keep re-remembering, but then the knowledge fades after a day or two.”

She remembered the first time he told her that, and how she’d started to make notes in her books every time she reread them, before she forgot their stories again.

“But Baelfire isn’t--” she struggled to find the word. “He’s not like me. He’s not caught in this loop.”

“I was too late to save him. The photograph keeps him rooted here, that’s all. He is but a ghost.” His thumb brushed over her cheekbone, swiping away a tear she didn’t realise had escaped. “I had more time with you. The photographs keep you captured as you were then. Frozen in time.”

Opening her eyes, Belle searched his face, her hands fisted in the back of his blazer. She didn’t want to forget again. She wanted to remember what they’d once had; the love and the warmth and the bright house filled with flowers in the spring. Now they were trapped in an eternal winter, cut off from the outside world and frozen in its dark embrace.

But she didn’t feel like that when he held her. His touch was like the sun rising over a moon-kissed moor, and she didn’t want to forget that.

“We could stop. I think I have a way to end this,” he said carefully. “But every time I tell you my plan...”

“What is it?”

“You tell me you don’t wish to leave.”

“I don’t,” she realised in a whisper. He didn’t look surprised. “I love you. I’m not ready to go. Not yet.”

“And I love you, but don’t you see?” His thumbs stroked her cheeks. “That’s why I should have let you go.”

Belle remembered another moment, as she looked into his warm eyes, when he first started taking photographs of her. “There is always a price with love. It holds us all in its debt,” Ingrum had said. "One way or another." She understood that now. Love was both fleeting and haunting, and she was ready to pay that price herself to hold onto him.

“Let me capture you,” she whispered.

“You already have.” He smiled. “I am eternally yours.”

Belle smiled back, but it wasn’t enough. “Please. Let me try.”

“You might not even remember this in the morning.”

Sitting up, ignoring the state of their clothes and her still exposed legs, Belle twisted around to look down at him. She brushed her hand down his weathered cheek, and smiled sadly. “It doesn’t matter. I will find a way for us to always be together.”

He cupped his hand over hers, keeping her cool skin against his hot cheek, and met her eyes. “Forever?”

“Forever,” Belle agreed.

 

* * *

 

_The next morning..._

Dreams were unusual things, and Belle usually remembered all of hers, but that morning she awoke with a clear head. There was a niggling, scratching in the back of her mind; an uneasiness that told her she’d forgotten an important dream. She tried to cling to the last moments of it, an image of his face, before the dream crept away and escaped her, leaving her alone in an empty room.

But that wasn’t right.

She hadn’t been alone when she fell asleep. Her new husband had been beside her, holding her so close he seemed to fear she’d disappear in the night. Like an apparition, or smoke through his fingers. All she could remember now was a small, whisper of a thought; one that promised her warmth and love.

There was a price for love, a familiar voice reminded her, and Belle was ready to pay it.

She needed to capture Mr. Gold.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me @[mareyshelley](http://mareyshelley.tumblr.com) on tumblr


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